Pursued by a purple storm cloud, the crucifix doesn't come off, can gut me with a chainsaw, scorch the Earth, turn the counterfeit liberal cities to glass, devour the sunlight and reflections on the cupolas, the rib cages lay scattered in the pastures like the bones of great rocks, an open barn door, frightened parakeets hiding from the cold bars of a prison cell, tired horses in the rain, you can't cage some birds.